


And The Moon Shines Down Upon Us

by Wolven_Spirits



Series: The Thrall of Pleasure [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark fic, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Obsession, Obsessive Tom Riddle, Serial Killer Tom Riddle, Stalking, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 18:09:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21257456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolven_Spirits/pseuds/Wolven_Spirits
Summary: Tom Riddle has found the perfect victim: sweet, kind, naive Harry Potter.No one will notice when he disappears, and no one will care.It's so very perfect. Almost too perfect.





	And The Moon Shines Down Upon Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thesilea_in_Space](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesilea_in_Space/gifts), [FermionCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FermionCat/gifts).
  * Translation into Español available: [And The Moon Shines Down Upon Us (Traducción)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24099964) by [Maya_0196](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maya_0196/pseuds/Maya_0196)

> Thank you to Thesilea for the incredible prompt that inspired this piece.
> 
> Thank you to Fermincat for such incredible beta-ing. Couldn't have polished this up so much without your help.
> 
> Spoiler tags in end notes.
> 
> Happy Halloween!

Tom had to admit that his newest victim was an unfortunate soul — and not simply because his life would soon be cut short. If Tom were a better person, he would have been horrified by the poor boy’s treatment.

It didn’t take long to spot the signs as he sat in his car day after day, watching Number Four Privet Drive. The yelling was all too obvious. He could hear the vile words that spewed forth, horrendous and twisted. He could feel how sharp the words were, each one intended to cut into his victim’s heart. He could see, sometimes, through the window, the way Vernon Dursley’s face purpled and he swelled even larger in his rage.

As he followed his victim down the street, making note of the hour and minute he left the house each day, he could see just how thin the boy was. How he hunched in on himself and constantly looked over his shoulder, eyes wider than they should be. So delightfully skittish. 

Ah but how cruel the Dursleys were, Tom mused with a smile, stuffing themselves full, ravenous in their appetite, while this beautiful boy withered under their watch.

For ‘boy’ was indeed the term they tended to favour when addressing him. ‘Boy’, ‘you’, and ‘freak’. And Tom could almost empathize, for he knew that such words had warped him when he was younger. The way the other orphans had laughed at him and called him names. The way Mrs. Cole had been so sure that he was the devil’s child.

And perhaps she was right. For if Tom were a better person, he would have chosen the uncle, not the nephew, as his next victim. He would have stepped in and put a stop to their hate.

But, unfortunately, he was not a better person. In fact, he had been told more than once that he was the devil himself. And he thought that perhaps it was true, for he merely continued to observe his victim, watching and waiting.

The boy was otherwise only seen on Fridays and Saturdays during the evening shifts he took at the local pub serving drinks until late at night. He walked the same route every time — up the street, through the park and the shadows of its trees, then around the corner and to the pub. He returned home via the exact same path. He would leave at five fifty-five in the evening to reach the pub at six o’clock, and would not return home until two thirty-four in morning. Far too late for anyone to observe his return home.

So it would be days before anyone noticed that he was gone. No one would find the body, and no one would bother looking. Because nobody cared.

How very, very perfect. Almost too perfect. If Tom hadn’t spent months stalking him, observing his every movement, he would have been suspicious.

Tom had even delved into the boy’s files, curious to see if there was more going on than he could see. But he had found nothing but a high school diploma and a few years’ worth of tax filings. Why the boy did not seek more in his life, Tom had not quite figured out.

Tom supposed that not everyone rose above their struggles or sought revenge. Not everyone had the desire — the power — to drive a knife through a man’s heart. To see the flesh torn and painted a vivid red.

Tom watched as a pale, thin hand set his drink in front of him, so close that if he wished, he could reach out and capture it in his own. He stared up into the seafoam green of his waiter’s eyes and thanked him, a kind smile curving his lips and softening his features. Blood rushed to his victim’s cheeks, a shy smile lurking at the corners of his lips. He looked almost like a doll, dressed up and hiding the realities of his life behind a pretty smile and a perfectly pressed uniform.

“Thank you,” the boy whispered. His voice was soft and sweet and it stirring that dark desire deep within Tom. It was what had first made Tom truly notice him, in fact. The gentle purity of his voice, chiming like bells upon the swell of waves.

And oh, Tom wanted to hear him _ scream_.

When Tom was done, he left a generous tip and took his time putting on his coat, well aware of the way his boy’s eyes lingered upon him. He paused just for a moment as he reached the door, glancing at the reflective window. He caught sight of a flash of sea green right before he exited the building. He smirked, pleased that his good looks and practiced charm had captivated yet another victim.

He took his time walking to the park, well aware that it would be another forty-five minutes and — he glanced at his watch — thirty-seven seconds before his victim wandered past him and through the copse of trees on his way home.

Except that, of course, tonight his prey would not make it home. And never would again.

He licked the dry, cracked flesh of his lips, savouring the mental image of his boy, bound and struggling, eyes wide with fear. He would likely cry. Most did. And if he didn’t — well, Tom would make it so. He did so wish to slide his knife along the boy’s skin, painting him a vivid scarlet to contrast his glistening green eyes as he screamed and screamed and screamed.

Yes, the boy would be the perfect sacrifice to the blood moon. Sweet and beautiful, as Tom deserved. 

The needle lay heavy in his pocket. Filled with a clear, red liquid: capped, and waiting. Soon, soon. Tom had to be patient. He had been patient for almost a year. But it was time, now. Soon, so soon. He couldn’t get ahead of himself. He had to wait until just the right moment, otherwise all would fail and Tom would be caught and never again would he feel life run through his hands or see eyes fade to blank or listen to the staccato fear of his victims.

Patience, patience. 

He sat on the park bench just next to the path, his leg bouncing as he counted down the minutes. It was not unusual to feel such anticipation when he was so very close to the end of his hunt, for it was such a thrill — such a reward — to finally close his jaws around the throat of his prey after stalking him for so very long.

There was, however, something particularly alluring about this boy — something about the way he lowered his lashes demurely, about the way he spoke so softly, his voice too pure for the atrocities he had suffered. It drove Tom wild, this _ need _ to see his boy again. Oh, how he needed those eyes upon him, anguished under the pain of Tom’s desire. Needed to hear that voice speak his name and beg and rain sweet despair upon his ears.

Tom nearly groaned at the thought, his trousers suddenly just a little too tight, and he breathed deeply, leaning back to gaze upon the blood moon. Tonight was the perfect night, and he would not let his impatience ruin it.

He forced his thoughts to rest, calming his mind to tranquility. He couldn’t afford to allow his mind to stray from his task. His looks and charm were powerful tools, but it was his mind that made him truly strong. Unbeatable. So many of his prey had fallen to his hand, and still the police had no leads.

And they never would. He was too careful, too perfect in his choices — from victim to location, he left nothing to chance. 

Which was why, as he heard his prey’s steps swishing through the grass, he did not let himself tense up. Did not even allow himself to look. Instead, he kept his head where it was, resting against the back of the bench, as if he had drunken just a little too much.

The footsteps approached, a fluttering of motion among the sea of grass. They were timid, as was his boy’s very demeanor. So very unlike Tom, who thrived upon power and made his victims cry. Made them beg. Made their skin run red with blood as they screamed for him. 

It was a thrill, seeing them bound and helpless under his knife as he carved out their lives from their flesh and offered them to the moon. And oh, he was practically salivating at how close he was to his next victim. 

The footsteps faltered near his bench, then stopped altogether right in front of him.

“H-Hello, sir?” Came that shy voice, gentle as a flowing stream. “Are you alright?”

Tom wondered if he should pluck the boy’s vocal cords right from his throat. Bottle them up in embalming fluid and keep them on his shelf, forever a reminder of the sweet screams of Tom’s most beautiful sacrifice.

It was a strange obsession — he had thought that the clear green of his boy’s irises would draw him in more so than his voice, but there was something about it — something that made him hunger. Made him want to devour the boy whole. 

He grunted, as if startled by the boy. He turned his gaze upwards and was greeted by a concerned face, green eyes bright even in the darkness. Such a kind boy. Such a sweet boy. And all his.

He waved a hand, relaxing his muscles enough that his fingers flopped with the motion. “‘M almost home, ’s no worry.” He let his words run together as if he could not quite control his tongue.

His boy’s frown deepened in concern. “You look a little pale. Are you sure you’re alright?”

So deliciously sweet and naive. It was amazing, really, that no one had taken advantage of him yet. 

“’M fine, ‘m fine,” he slurred, pushing himself up. He let his hand slip and his shoulder thunked against the wooden bench painfully. He smiled inwardly as his boy took a worried step closer. 

Then he staggered to his feet, swaying, allowing a half-empty bottle of rum to fall to the ground next to him. He stepped into the small puddle of amber liquid that had formed next to the bottle. “‘M a grown man, y’know,” he said, shaking a finger at the young man. “Can take good care o’ m’self.”

Green eyes blinked, and a startled laugh burst from his boy’s lips. “I’m sure you can, sir,” he said, eyes trailing across Tom’s face, seemingly unable to look away from his handsome features. “But I can help you home if you live nearby. I’ve seen you a few times at the pub. You’re a local, right?”

Tom nodded a little unsteadily, hiding a sharp, triumphant grin. How easily the fish fell for the baited hook. “Mig — Magnolia,” he said, a concentrated frown upon his face.

The young man’s face brightened in recognition. “Oh, I know where that is. That’s right around where I live. Won’t you walk with me, sir? Protect me from any night-time predators?” He grinned at his own joke, and Tom nodded in false solemnity.

“‘Course,” he replied. 

He staggered the few steps into the trees, until the shadows surrounded them. It was dark under the shade of the looming branches. Here, the light of the moon could not reach. Here, upon the cold earth and jutting roots, nothing could stop Tom’s darkness from ensnaring its prey. 

Tom let his foot catch on a root and then stumbled, his hand sliding into his pocket as he fell sideways into his prey, sending them both sprawling to the ground. And in the darkness he pulled out the needle and plunged it into his boy’s neck, the clear, red drug swirling down, spreading through his victim’s veins like blood diffusing through water.

Green eyes widened in surprise and a mouth opened to scream, but Tom was faster. He clasped his hand over his victim’s mouth. For as much as he wished to hear the boy’s voice crying out, he could not risk getting caught.

He straddled the boy, his height and weight enough to immobilize him. Really, the boy was so thin, so scrawny. Even as he struggled, his motions were weak and useless. A helpless little prey. 

If Tom were a better person, he would have worried about just how light the boy was. Just how easy it had been to subdue his small form.

But instead he smiled. “Sleep now, sweet Harry. There will be plenty of time to scream when you wake up.”

Because Tom really was a horrible person. 

He waited until his victim fell still, then picked the boy up and strode into the dense trees. He had a car waiting on the other side where the streetlights were conveniently broken and the moonlight had yet to break over the tops of the trees. It was so dark, there, that Tom had trouble seeing and he fumbled twice for the handle of the door.

He slid his victim into the back seat, binding the boy’s arms, wrists, and legs with the straps he had prepared. He doubted the drug would pass through his system that quickly, but just in case…

He covered the prone boy first with some blankets that smelled faintly of hemp, then with a few empty boxes and bags of puffed air, making it look to all the world as if he was in the middle of moving.

Then he got into the front seat, buckled his seat belt, started the car, and began driving to his dear sweet Harry’s doom.

—

His boy was beautiful. Of that, there was no doubt. Tom undressed him slowly, relishing the way his skin was revealed, inch by alluring inch. Oh, but it practically glowed in the moonlight, almost pearlescent in its shine. Tom traced his fingers up the boy’s arms and down his chest, his nails scraping over pink nipples. The boy made a soft sound as his nipples pebbled under Tom’s touch. A sweet exhale that made Tom lick his dry lips in anticipation.

“So beautiful,” he murmured as he reached down to remove the trousers and underwear, revealing the pale thighs upon which lay the boy’s soft cock. Tom eyed it contemplatively for a moment, but decided to continue with his current ministrations instead. He removed the last of Harry’s clothing, stepping back and admiring the way the boy was stretched out. 

He shone under the moonlight, otherworldly in appearance and delicate and vulnerable in his sleep. Tom smiled, dark and greedy, his heart pounding in anticipation as his eyes roved the body of his prey. Soft and innocent and all _ his_. There was no escaping him now.

He undid the straps that bound the boy and replaced them with manacles, attaching and adjusted the chains so that the boy was left spread eagle. Even if he struggled, he would only be able to move a few inches. It would do no good for him to interrupt Tom’s delicate knife work, after all.

Tom’s fingers lingered over each of the various knives laid out on the table next to the bed. Each one gleamed mercurial in the light of the moon, eager and ready. He had sharpened each one just yesterday, wanting to make sure that everything was laid out exactly as he desired. That everything was perfect. 

He slid a hand up the smooth thigh of his boy, lightly tracing his cock before continuing upwards. He wondered if he should start before the boy awoke. He longed to see his white skin stained red. Longed to see his blood splashed across the sheets. How beautiful he would look, the moonlit sacrifice.

Licking his lips, he picked up a small scalpel and inspected it carefully, ensuring that there were no imperfections. Then he lowered it to the boy’s chest, sweat beginning to dot his brow in anticipation. His breath sounded loudly in his own ears as he touched the knife to flesh and he began to press. It did not cut through the skin as immediately as he had hoped, and Tom frowned as it met with resistance. He pushed a little harder, but it was as if the knife had dulled in the few moments he had held it, for the boy’s skin merely paled under the press of the blade, turning bloodless and white.

But he was sure he had sharpened it to perfection. How strange. So strange. His grip tightened as he lifted the knife, leaving only a thin indent in the skin. 

Had he… had he made a mistake? No, that was impossible. He never made mistakes. Rage flared through him. How dare — how dare this happen? It should have slid right through the skin, should have brought blood right to his fingertips. It should have _ worked_.

He snarled, his face twisting. His knuckles turned bloodless. He wanted to stab — wanted to rip the knife through the boy’s chest and watch the blood gush forth, drenching the boy in scarlet. How _ dare _ — 

His thoughts were interrupted as the boy stirred. It was but a gentle ripple of motion, but enough for him to relax his grip, his gaze snapped up to Harry’s features, his previous rage leaving as quickly as it had come. He wanted to watch every moment as the boy woke. Confusion, horror, fear. Tom wanted to see his prey’s doll-like smile marred with terror. Wanted to see every expression that crossed his face as he fell victim to Tom’s quicksilver desire.

It was a little early for the boy to awaken, but Tom had accounted for the fact that each victim reacted differently to his drug. This was the fastest recovery, certainly, but Tom had made sure that he was ready for any possibility. It was all still within the parameters of his plan.

Yes, this was good. Still good. Tom would rip Harry’s skin to shreds if that was what was needed to spill his life for the moon. He would not let such an oddity mess with perfect plan.

His boy’s eyes opened slowly and with great difficulty. Green glimmered underneath, murkier now, like the dark of the ocean, and just as deep. 

Brows furrowed, and after a few moments, Harry’s eyes began to dart around, taking in the large windows, the streaming moonlight, the darkened room, no furniture but for the bed and the small table. And beyond these walls there were only trees and more darkness, ominous in its multitude of shadows.

Then his eyes landed on Tom and the knife in his hand. They widened, then, still slightly glassy but alert enough to realize that there was something wrong. His hands jerked and the chains rattled, and Tom noted, distantly, that he was far stronger than should be possible for a weak young man whose ribs were far too visible. 

Harry’s legs moved next, again pulling the few inches that the restraints allowed, the clanking like music to Tom’s ears. He did so love watching them struggle, helpless before him.

He felt his cock pulse as his boy, his sweet little prey, pulled taut on his chains, head turning and mouth opening. His throat worked, but his voice did not yet emerge. 

“You can scream all you want,” Tom allowed. “In fact, I welcome it.” He twirled his knife idly, stroking the flat of the blade. “You can struggle all you want, too. Even if you did manage to escape, you wouldn’t get very far. There’s nothing for miles — nothing but wild animals. And besides,” he smiled gently, “the way out is a maze. I made it so. I’m afraid you would get helplessly lost, and die slowly of hunger and thirst. Surely dying for me is a much better option.”

Tom’s eyes lidded as he brushed his fingers feather-light upon the boy’s skin. “I’ll carve you beautifully. I promise. It will be painful, but,” his smile turned hungry, “I’m afraid I simply _ must _ hear you scream…”

His boy opened his mouth again, his throat working once again. Tom waited patiently as the boy stilled, his adam’s apple bobbing appealingly under shimmering skin, a coy taunt to Tom’s self-control.

Then he spoke, a word so simple it was barely a sound. “Oh.”

And it resonated, like the sweet toll of a bell, ringing enticingly in Tom’s head. It was a divine sound, clear and pure in the silence of the room. Like a wave it rose, a hymn of the sea cresting upon him and encompassing him in its beauty. And Tom felt suspended within its resonance, floating within its alluring embrace.

Tom could freely admit that he had obsessed over the boy’s voice for a while now. Ever since he had first heard Harry speak, he had known that he had to have the boy. Had to have him chained, just like this, begging and screaming and using that sweet voice of his just for Tom.

And now, oh by the moon, Tom needed to hear more. He felt parched for the boy’s voice as if it were a droplet of water and he a man dying of thirst. More, more, and more. He couldn’t get enough. An entire ocean might not quench his desire.

Tom leaned forward eagerly. “Speak again,” he urged, his hand coming to rest on Harry’s thigh, the knife almost forgotten. “I want to hear your voice.”

His boy surveilled him with hooded eyes, looking strangely satisfied, considering his situation. Perhaps he was as slow as he was pretty?

“I don’t like pain,” he said at last, his voice a gentle stream of beauty. 

“Of course you don’t,” Tom crooned, his mind sinking into the depths of sweet Harry’s words. The knife clattered to the ground as he moved closer, eyes caught in Harry’s gaze. In his large eyes and perfect features. Tom thought dazedly that he should have known what such a perfect being truly deserved. He wasn’t quite sure why he had wanted so badly to rip, to tear, to kill, when surely there were other ways to make him scream. “What do you like, sweet Harry?”

Harry smiled, a tremulous little thing, and Tom drank in the sight greedily.

“I like — “ Harry hesitated, and Tom leaned forward, eyes widening and lips parting as he waited for the boy to speak once more, “I like pleasure.”

“Pleasure,” Tom breathed. 

Harry nodded, their eyes still caught. “I have never received much pleasure,” he admitted, his voice ebbing and flowing. “The Dursleys are very cruel. They would never allow me to have anything I truly wanted.”

“I can give you pleasure,” Tom said, his hand trailing up the boy’s thigh. His skin was smooth and soft and Tom found that he couldn’t get enough of the unblemished flesh. And really, how could he have thought to mar such perfection?

“Will you?” Harry asked, blinking his wide, liquid eyes. “Will you give me… everything?”

Tom found himself nodding. There was part of him that wondered why he was not using any of his knives to carve his desire into Harry’s flesh — he had prepared them carefully just for this moment. But then Harry smiled and the thought fell away. Plans could change. And this was a much, much better idea. “Anything you desire,” he promised.

Then he leaned forward and licked a wet strip up his boy’s cock. 

Oh, how lovely it was, the way Harry’s eyes widened, the way his breath crested. It was a soft swell of sound, so gentle and faint that Tom almost didn’t hear it. But how could he not listen for every note his boy made? So precious were the noises that escaped those lips. Tom could not bear to miss a single one, hushed as they were.

Each gasp, each sweet sound of ecstasy made Tom harder and harder until he was straining against the fabric of his trousers. And yet, he could not remove his attention from his boy. Could not release his hands from their grip upon Harry’s thighs. He could only hum, his mouth moving up and down, his tongue flattening along the underside of Harry’s cock, then swirling around the head. 

Harry’s hips bucked, sending his cock down Tom’s throat. And he took it, deep as he could, swallowing and relishing the sweet cry that sprung from Harry’s lips. 

Oh, how the sound made his own cock strain, the head leaking precome that seeped into the fabric of his trousers, soaking it and staining it dark. He longed to reach down and free himself, but he could not quite muster the strength to move his hands away from his boy’s body. 

“Oh,” Harry was moaning, eyes wide as he watched Tom move upon his cock. The gasping sounds only made Tom move more insistently, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked, hoping — needing to hear more.

Harry’s fists clenched and pulled at the chains, but it seemed a mere afterthought. “I — “ he stuttered as Tom’s tongue dipped into his slit, “my balls — “

Almost without thought, one of Tom’s hands moved upwards from his grip on Harry’s thigh and began to fondle his sweet boy. His delicious boy. The being of perfection who was chained to his bed and yet who seemed to have chained Tom’s mind in return. For Tom found himself so very entranced, unable to deny the lure of Harry’s sweet voice.

He should have hated the thought. Should have loathed the very idea. Should have grabbed the knife he had dropped and plunged it into the boy’s heart, spilling his blood for the moon. For was the boy not his sacrifice?

But Tom found that he did not want to see the boy’s blood. No, that would not do. His skin would look beautiful, covered in red, but — not if it was Harry’s.

“Oh, yes,” Harry sighed, his hips bucking again, and Tom smirked, pleased. 

He wanted Harry to keep making such sounds. To serenade him in screams of pleasure. His own cock throbbed each time Harry gasped, each time a sound left his lips. And he could feel a tightening in his loins, a heat deep in his gut that grew with every moment.

Perhaps instead he would hoard the sweet sounds for himself and offer the boy’s pleasure to the moon. Would offer it the sweet sight of Harry writhing in pleasure upon this bed. Surely that was far better than spilling his blood?

He sucked, hard, and watched in satisfaction as Harry’s head fell back, a groan filling the air. It rumbled, growl-like, deep within Harry’s chest, and Tom felt a shiver run down his spine. Harry’s back arched, a sensual curve that pushed his cock further into Tom’s mouth.

He moaned, the taste of Harry’s precome salty and heavenly upon his tongue. He could feel his boy’s cock throbbing, pulsing as he neared the edge, and Tom redoubled his efforts, his eyes fixated on the expression of ecstasy that decorated Harry’s face. 

“Oh, oh, this is,” Harry gasped, hips thrusting faster, “so very good.”

The words broke over him like waves, and Tom’s eyelids fluttered as he took Harry as deep as he could, his nose pressing into the coarse hairs between his boy’s legs. He couldn’t breathe like this. He was drowning, Harry’s length deep inside his throat, but he could not bring himself to care. 

His pulse throbbed in time with Harry’s thrusts, and his own cock begged for friction. Just a little more…

The edges of Tom’s vision were beginning to darken, but Harry was crying out so sweetly and Tom knew that it wouldn’t take much more. Just a little longer… 

And he needed — needed to hear Harry. Needed more, more, and more. His eyes closed as pleasure curled within him, hot and ready, and gods he was so close — 

He moaned again and swallowed, and then Harry was screaming, a sound like the crashing of waves and the opening of the heavens and it was beautiful and it was deadly and all Tom could do was ride it out, pleasure coursing from Harry and into him and he swallowed Harry’s come as his own cock pulsed. 

His pleasure rocked through him, and even then, all he could focus on was the sound of Harry’s ecstasy.

Harry, oh, sweet Harry and the voice that Tom worshiped. 

He was dizzy as he slowly surfaced, lifting his lips from Harry’s cock, taking a few moments to ensure that he had wrung every drop that he could from his boy’s softening member. He watched as shivers ran up Harry’s limbs, culminating in a whimper of reluctant pleasure that made Tom’s cock twitch. 

He coughed as he sat up, wiping his chin where saliva and come had dripped down. His trousers were cold and wet with his own release, but Tom couldn’t quite focus on his discomforts, still drowning as he was in the expression of bliss upon Harry’s face.

“That,” Harry said, when his breaths had calmed. “I liked that.”

“There is so much more that I can show you,” Tom said, voice thick. If all he ever heard were Harry’s screams as he came… yes, yes that would be good. For never before had he come without seeing the life fade from his victim’s eyes. And never before had he wanted such pleasure for anyone but himself.

Harry smiled a sad little smile, looking almost pitying. “I don’t doubt that,” he said. “But I’m also hungry.”

Tom stilled, his brow furrowing as something began to nag at the back of his mind. “I have no food here,” he said. He never ate when he was dealing with his victims. Surely, surely Harry could see that there was nothing to consume in this bare room.

Harry blinked. “You do,” he disagreed, something almost apologetic in his gaze.

Something cold begin to sprout within his heart as it thumped loudly, skittishly. And just for a moment Tom thought he could almost capture a strange thought that flitted across his mind. 

“But I cannot eat if I’m still chained up,” Harry continued, eyes wide and green as the stormy sea. So very green that they seemed almost black, swallowing up the whites of his eyes, and so very large that they seemed to take up much more of his face than was possibly human.

“No,” Tom agreed faintly, “you can’t.” He reached into his pocket and fished out his keys. He used the smallest one to unlock each cuff, releasing Harry’s limbs. He stood there, at the edge of the bed, wanting to help soothe the aching limbs as his boy massaged his wrists and ankles. And yet another small part of him loved the way his skin looked, reddened and abused.

Harry sat up and stared at Tom for a moment, eyes liquid in the shadow of his own features. His ears peeked out from his wild hair, pointed and lightly webbed along the edges. Almost dainty but for the sharpness he could see gleaming at the points. His skin, once pearly in its glow, held a faint tinge of kelp-green to it now. The same deep colour as his eyes, Tom noted, tracing the pattern of scales now visible upon his shoulders and arms. 

“The Dursleys never feed me enough,” Harry said a little sadly. “Even though I’ve done everything I can to please them. I hid my freakishness, ignored my hunger, pretended I wasn’t a monster.” He tilted his head as he studied Tom’s frozen form. “And then you started stalking me.” He reached out, his claws sharp and beautifully curved, his fingers lightly webbed. 

And Tom could only stare, his mind entranced, the words falling to him like so many droplets of rain.

“I was weirdly flattered, you know.” Harry laughed, his teeth sharp — too sharp, too sharp. “No one ever really paid attention to me. You were the first.” He traced Tom’s cheek so very gently, as if scared of breaking him. “And I thought,” Harry continued, “that if you, a human, could be so monstrous… well,” his shoulders flitted upwards momentarily, “why couldn’t I?”

Tom felt his mind buck. Every word Harry spoke cut through him shark-like, jagged and fierce. And still, Tom could not move away from this creature, this beautiful monster. His voice wove a net that Tom could not break. For all that he knew that he did not want to die — that death was his ultimate fear, one that made him fight against even sweet, lovely Harry’s voice — 

“And you truly did give me such pleasure,” Harry said, his fingers tracing down Tom’s shirt. The claws ripped the fabric despite his light touch.

“But,” Harry continued regretfully, “I am just so very hungry.”

Tom… did not wish for Harry to be hungry. He had never been a good person. Had always been greedy and cruel. Had never thought of anyone but himself. But now… 

Tom did not move as Harry stepped closer, inhaling Tom’s scent as his teeth scraped against the fragile skin of Tom’s neck.

And Tom’s hands, so very skilled at killing, rested docilely at his sides. For how could he think to strike at this being, this heavenly creature? He could but offer everything he had. A sacrifice to the blood moon. To Harry.

Just as he had promised.

Harry would devour him. Piece by piece, Tom would disappear from this world, a mystery forever unsolved. And never again would Tom hear Harry’s laugh, or his screams, or look into his eyes and discover the very purpose of his life.

And Tom…

Tom was greedy.

How he wanted…

“Thank you,” Harry said kindly, “for all of this. I promise I will never forget you. Such pleasure you brought me.” He leaned closer, licking a trail up Tom’s neck, his tongue long and sinuous. “And of course, for being my very first proper meal…”

Harry opened his mouth, his jaw distending, gaping and abyssal. Harry’s teeth glinted and he looked beautiful, then, inhuman in the face of his meal.

“If you — ” Tom said, the slight movement of his throat enough to break his skin upon Harry’s teeth. The being paused, blood staining his pearly teeth as he drew back slightly, allowing Tom to continue. His mind whirred as he spoke, thoughts flashing as he struggled to coherence. Because his mind was his most powerful asset. Always, it was his mind that allowed him to dominate over others. And now… now he needed his every thought.

Because Tom was greedy and selfish and he was not willing to hear the last of Harry’s voice.

“If you can wait — just a little longer,” he started again, his pulse racing, “I can bring you as many meals as you desire. You will never go hungry again. I can promise you this.”

Harry hesitated, a frown wrinkling his forehead. 

“If you eat me,” Tom said, “you will only fall hungry again. But I know how to lure people away — so that no one will ever see. So that no one will ever find them. And I can bring them to you, whenever you please. And no one will catch us. No one will hunt us down and try to kill us. Because no one will ever know.”

Harry looked torn now, his expression rippling under the current of Tom’s words.

“We can start with your relatives — the Dursleys. They hardly deserve to live, don’t you think?” Tom pressed forward, eyes glinting, a dark grin stretching across his face. “So cruel they are. Monsters themselves. Far more cruel than you are. You would look beautiful, you know, bathed in their blood.”

“But,” Harry said, “I don’t want to eat anyone who’s nice. Mrs. Figg always gave me cookies and let me pat her cats, even when they were scared of me. I don’t want to eat her.”

“Of course,” Tom agreed, moving closer to Harry and pressing their bodies together. “Only the ones who deserve it.”

“But,” Harry said once again, “don’t you deserve it?”

Tom’s grin widened. “I might be monster,” he agreed, “but I’m your monster. Or am I wrong?”

Their wills met like a clashing of waves.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, then, a pleased smile curling his lips upwards. “You are mine.” He reached up and cupped Tom’s face. “Mine to let live,” he said, and then tightened his grip until the tips of his claws pierced gently through Tom’s skin, releasing little droplets of blood. “Mine to devour, if you should step out of line.”

Tom laughed, delightedly. Harry was his, his, his. 

“My sweet, lovely Harry,” he said. “Everything I do will be for you,” he promised. Their eyes met once again and his vow settled, deep within him. “Everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt: Tom is a serial killer looking for his next kill and sees Harry as the perfect victim. Jokes on him as Harry is a starving for his next meal, and Tom is looking mighty tasty
> 
> Spoiler tags:
> 
> Creature Harry


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